


The Deerman

by gollymissmolly



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gollymissmolly/pseuds/gollymissmolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short, spooky drabble on Margaret's first encounter with the Fae, circa 1885.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deerman

It had been there for over an hour, staring at her.  She knew because she had woken up an hour before, and it had already been there, standing a yard outside of the circle her father had drawn around their campsite before they had gone to sleep.  She’d heard her horse whinny and paw at the ground, nervous (though her father’s horse stood by, asleep— just like the old man).  And when she’d opened her eyes, there it was.

Or rather, there  _he_ was, because it was definitely male.  He wore a pair of hide breeches, but with no shirt, nor any shoes.  His skin was a tawny color, darker than hers, and the lines of his body sleek and muscled- not unlike a mountain lion in the way that he moved.

None of this was particularly surprising to Maggie McCoy.  She’d met her share of people whose skin tones ranged from pale as the moon, like her, to dark as the night.  This did not startle her.

What was cause for concern was the fact that he had no head.

In place of a head was a stag’s skull, settled on top of his shoulders. At first she’d thought he wore it as a mask over his own face- but it soon became clear that he had no face beneath, nor head of his own.  There were no eyes inside the skull, human or otherwise.

And yet, he  _stared_.  At her.

Margaret sat up from beneath her saddle blanket, looking across the space of five feet to where he stood, just outside the circle, and watched him. 

She knew she should be afraid.  She knew she should wake her father, in case they fell under attack.  But she was not, and she did not.  She simply sat and watched him as he watched her.

And so they had stayed for an hour— until a rustle on the opposite side of the fire, near where her father slept, caught her attention, and Margaret turned her head quickly to see what was there.  Upon turning back, she was startled to find the deerman three feet closer, his toes only barely outside the circle drawn in the dust.  He opened his deer’s mouth, wider than any deer might, and a rattling,  _clicking_  noise emanated rather than a voice.  Its call was answered by dozens of others, and it was in that moment that Margaret realized they were completely  _surrounded._

Scrambling back towards the fire, away from the edge of the circle, she started to shout to wake her father, but somehow the old man was already wide awake— perhaps he had heard the clicking-call as well?— and he caught her before she could scoot herself back into the fire.

"Pa!" She shouted, suddenly afraid where she had not been before.

"Quiet, girl." He said, though his tone was more soothing than his words.  "Don’t be afraid."

Margaret swallowed down the fear, but nodded, and looked to her father as he reached behind him,  _slowly_ , to hand her the butt of the rifle. 

"Don’t be using that unless I give the signal."  He said, moving to retrieve his own revolver, the one with the long and deadly barrel. 

She nodded obediently, her eyes flitting to where other creatures were stepping out of the shadows- some more or less dressed, some with the heads of coyotes, of bears, some with strange sigils down their backs or arms, some with bright red hair or blonde hair sprouting from their animal skulls.  The clicking, rattling noise grew in volume and intensity, like a bullfrog’s croak drowning out all other sounds of the night. 

"Don’t break the circle." Her father reminded her as he stood and grabbed the girl by the elbow to pull her to her feet.  Margaret only swayed once before she put the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, as her father had taught her, but kept the barrel pointed at the ground, watching the creatures as the encircled the campfire.

"What are they, Pa? What do they want?" She asked in a hushed whisper, but the old man simply grunted a two word response,

"Wild Fae."

Margaret let that answer roll through her mind, seeking to find the one she’d seen before, the one who had been staring at her.  He wasn’t far— just a matter of feet away.  She thought she saw something in his eye sockets; maybe there  _was_  a face beneath after all, and she crept a little closer, despite the cacophonous creaking noise the creatures made.  

Almost, she could almost see into the skull— and with the rifle, they surely wouldn’t bother her.  She pulled the hammer back with one thumb to be sure she was ready, just in case, and took a few more steps forward.

Nearly there— she  _could_ see it now! Something magical, organic.  Not a face at all, not in any true sense of the word, but something else.  If she could only reach out and remove the skull.

"Maggie!"

She had been so focused on the Fae before her that she hadn’t heard her father’s warnings, his calls, not until he shouted and slammed his hand down on her shoulder to drag her back from where she had just been about to shuffle forward outside the circle.

She fell back near the fire where he pushed her away from the edge of the circle, but the clicking had abruptly stopped, and she could suddenly feel all of the eye-less skulls turning to her.

” _Maaaaaaaaagggggggggggggggggggggggiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee.”_

They clicked hideously, as if tasting the name in their tongueless mouths.  

With a grim set to his face, Ebenezar planted his feet like a solid oak, standing between the Deerman and his daughter.  He lifted the revolver, holding it balanced with one hand while the other went to the magical rod he kept at his belt.

The sun cracked over the dusty horizon, spreading pinks and oranges like dye across the night.  It grew by the second, until the shadows themselves began to retreat, and the Fae along with them, their dread clicking still lingering even once their bodies were gone.

 _"mag-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-"_ they clicked, releasing the last syllable as a sigh, caught on the wind as if it were nothing more than a dawn breeze, “ _-iiieeeee…_

_…eeeeeeeee…”_


End file.
